


the silence and stealth of a hungry cat

by Yesilian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Sharing a Bed, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2230659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesilian/pseuds/Yesilian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John woke up when the door to his room opened and allowed the light from the corridor to spill in. <br/>“Go away,” he moaned groggily. He turned around to lie on his belly and buried his face in the pillow to drown out the offending light. He could hear the door close quietly and footsteps walking towards him instead of away. Truthfully, he was glad about their direction. He hadn't really meant Sherlock when he had said that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the silence and stealth of a hungry cat

**Author's Note:**

> People who know my stories must know that I simply love the sharing-a-bed trope. I can't get enough of it. It's my weakness. Anyways, a while ago I was thinking about how though I love the thought of Sherlock secretly sneaking into John's bed and leaving again before he wakes up, it actually is pretty creepy when you really think about it. Imagine that happen to you. I'd feel so violated. So, I wanted to write something where that was addressed, but it totally got lost under all the fluff and smut. That's why I'm addressing it again, hoping a better writer might pick up the idea and give it the full attention it deserves. Yes, this is a prompt. Get writing people and don't forget to tell me when you've finished!

John woke up when the door to his room opened and allowed the light from the corridor to spill in.

“Go away,” he moaned groggily. He turned around to lie on his belly and buried his face in the pillow to drown out the offending light. He could hear the door close quietly and footsteps walking towards him instead of away. Truthfully, he was glad about their direction. He hadn't really meant Sherlock when he had said that.

Sherlock stopped next to his bed. He was hesitant, the emotion coming off him in waves and filling the room. John raised his head to look at him. It was too dark to see much more than the silhouette of his body standing half a metre away. Waiting. Unsure.

They had had a rough couple of days. A private case not going how it was supposed to go and clients who let their anger show. Smart clients. Sherlock could stand stupid people shouting at him. When intelligent people did it, it got under his skin. Not that he would show or ever even admit to it. But John knew him too well for Sherlock to be able to hide it from him.

There was one way, and only one, to make him feel better when his ego was suffering from doubt.

John shuffled over to the other side of the bed to make room for him. He tried for humour.

“Come in so I can cuddle you already,” he grunted and gave his voice a tone of patient indulgence. Sherlock bristled.

“I don't _cuddle_ ,” he clarified in that dignified tone of his. John rolled his eyes, which Sherlock couldn't see, realistically, but did anyway.

“Whatever. Comfort you,” he said. For good measure, he patted the space next to him. With a huff, Sherlock climbed into his bed and under the duvet.

“I don't need comfort, I'm not a child,” he muttered while doing it to make absolutely sure John knew of his displeasure. Yet despite his words, he didn't even bother with pretending otherwise or doing some sly, slow move and settled his head directly onto John's good shoulder and his hand on his belly. Unbeknownst to him, John smiled happily. Sherlock was curled up next to him, warming his side, and it was worth being woken up for in the middle of the night. It was always worth it. It happened not nearly often enough.

On autopilot, John's hand came up and settled in Sherlock's hair. That was the part both of them loved. John, because he enjoyed few things more than the feeling of Sherlock's strong and simultaneously fine hair between his fingers. The silky strands where just long enough so that he could run his fingers through them, but not so long that it was a strain to his wrist to reach their ends and feel them slip away, only for him to grab the next fistful and repeat it. And Sherlock, well it was one of his better kept secrets, but his scalp was the most sensitive part of his body next to only one other. It was all he could do not to lose himself into the caress and start positively purring, but it did make him close his eyes in bliss. Of course John knew this particular secret. Because John knew every single one of his secrets. Sometimes, the thought was infuriating. Not now, though, when Sherlock was close to being catatonic.

“You want to talk about it?” John asked quietly a few minutes later. They were both almost asleep now and he already knew the answer, but he had to ask the question anyway.

“No,” Sherlock said, predictably. John nuzzled his hair and took a deep breath. He liked the smell of Sherlock's hair. On his belly, Sherlock's own hand had started aimlessly caressing. Every now and then his hand came dangerously close to dipping too low and it made John reach a state of near half arousal that made his head buzz pleasantly. It also made him even more sleepy. John made a noise, something between moan and groan and purr and absolute, complete bliss, low in his throat. Sherlock chuckled noiselessly, but his body was shaking briefly and by extension, so was John's.

“Then why did you wake me up, if you don't want to talk and you don't want to cuddle?” John asked teasingly.

“I don't _cuddle_ ,” Sherlock repeated. John begged to differ, what with all six feet of the other man pressed to his side and their hands on each other's bodies, but he let that argument pass again. They cuddled, there was nothing about it. They were only human, as much as people usually doubted it when it came to Sherlock at least. It was the only reason Sherlock came to John's bed, when he needed that human contact more than anything. And John was always glad to provide.

“My mistake,” he said placating. A moment of mutual petting went by, before Sherlock spoke again.

“You said it was assault. If I don't get your permission,” he explained. 

“Huh?” John thought back. In his head, that discussion had definitely gone differently.

“If I sleep in your bed without you knowing it. You said it was assault,” Sherlock repeated. He sounded impatient. “You said it was creepy.”

“I meant, when you get into my bed while I'm asleep and leave it again before I wake up. And I was joking, you know that, right?” he added lastly, just to make sure Sherlock knew he hadn't meant it like that. Sherlock grunted, telling him that no, he hadn't known that. John tried to play it cool.

“Hm. Well, for the record, you can sleep in my bed whenever you want. I grant you permission until revoked. No need to wake me up.” He let his voice sound extra sleeply. “In fact, I'd prefer it if you let me sleep,” he added. He turned his head to kiss the top of Sherlock's head to let him know that he really, really didn't mind sharing his bed with the impossible man. “I'd also like it if I could wake up next to you for once, while we're stating wishes.”

“But you sleep so long!” Sherlock complained. It was John's turn to chuckle.

This happened. Not often, not weekly or in any noticeable pattern. Sometimes John woke up to a dent in his bed next to him where someone else had obviously lain. Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare to find Sherlock peacefully sleeping next to him. Truthfully, John couldn't tell you how often Sherlock slept in his bed because most of the time, he didn't notice himself. 

Then there were the nights when Sherlock woke John because he needed him. He needed his arms around him, holding him. Most of those times John never found out what had shellshocked the other man so much he forewent his own nature and craved the human touch. He always asked, exactly once, and sometimes Sherlock told him but mostly, he didn't. And John never pressed for an explanation. He was here for Sherlock no matter what happened. Sometimes the touching became kissing, just another form of touch really, only with lips this time. And sometimes they just held each other chastely. There was no saying how a night would go from the onset.

They fell silent, each taking up their caressing of the other man again and at least John was fast growing slower and slower. It took him a few minutes to notice that Sherlock's aimless stroking of his belly was, in fact, not aimless at all when his hand reached below his shirt time and time again. So, it was going to be one of those nights.

Sherlock noticed the moment John noticed and he stopped.

“You don't mind, do you?” he asked. For once, he really sounded insecure. It was only John that he ever allowed to see him like this and it made John's heart swell with love every time he saw the trust placed in him. He shook his head. John concentrated on the feeling against the skin of his thigh, where Sherlock's hip was pressed into him, but even though he could feel his penis lying there, he could also feel that Sherlock at least was not aroused. He adjusted that inner statement of his. It was going to be one of _those_ nights.

Gradually, Sherlock's hand slid under the waistband of his pants where John's cock was already waiting for it eagerly. 

“I can postpone falling asleep for ten minutes,” John quipped to mask the sigh that escaped him at the first contact of soft, calloused finger tips to his heated skin. He felt Sherlock's grin against his shoulder, it was that wide.

“A bit delusional, are we?” he teased.

“Oi,” John protested. Then he forget his indignation. Sherlock closed his fist around him and stroked along his length once, testing. A shiver went down John's spine. He loved this first moment. Sherlock was the first person with hands big enough to close around John's cock fully and rather than making him feel small, it made him feel deliciously hot. Now Sherlock opened his hand and with his perfectly manicured nails, followed the line of the vein on the underside from root to tip, scratching just a bit. The shiver this time was violent and John bucked upwards, wanting more.

“Fuck,” he moaned breathlessly. 

“Mhm, next time,” Sherlock whispered into his shoulder. He let go of John, eliciting a petulant whimper, to get the lube from the bed side table. He shushed John. “Patience,” he said with too much joy. John considered his options to smack that good mood right out of him. He knew all the buttons to push to reduce Sherlock to a writhing, begging mess. Right now, he was not aroused, but John knew all the short cuts to change that within two minutes, maybe less. He could have Sherlock on his back and pleading or on top and pushing if he wanted to. He didn't want to, John decided. Sherlock had made a decision and maybe it would be better to let him. Besides, it wasn't often that John had his undivided attention.

Sherlock's hand came back to envelop him, sticky and wet and with the perfect glide. His hand gripped with just the right amount of pressure and he picked up speed in a way only the practised could, knowing exactly what he was doing. When John's breathing became laboured long before ten minutes were over, he started fondling his bollocks instead, making him moan and curse and writhe, but calm down a bit otherwise. Sherlock took his prick again to run his thumb over the glans in slow, fast circles or repeatedly press against the frenulum, things that on their own could not make John come, but drove him wild and crazy all the same. He was saying Sherlock's name in an endless string, interspersed with “Fuck”s and moans and all because Sherlock had one hand on him. If he had had two, it would have all been over long ago.

He let his middle finger slip into John's anus and gave his prostate a quick stroke, just to tease him even more and now John was shamelessly begging. Sherlock heard him. With quick, strong strokes along the length of John, he let him finally come. He had made it to seven minutes. 

John fell boneless under him, panting heavily. Sherlock only regretted the darkness of the night that took away the pleasure of seeing John's face when he came. He hadn't seen it very often because they only ever had sex at night, in this bed, and never with the lights on. Sometimes the full moon provided some, but it was never enough for Sherlock who seriously contemplated getting an infrared camera just for the purpose of filming John in ecstasy. He suspected John would have something against the purchase so he had refrained from it until now.

Sherlock put the lube back and fished for the baby wipes he had deposited in the table for these nights. Efficiently he cleaned first John and then his hand and by the time he was done, John had turned his head towards him and was grinning stupidly up at him. It was endearing, so Sherlock dove down to kiss the grin right away. He didn't succeed, but it didn't really matter, either, in the end.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from google's definition of stealth. I like it, I thought it fits Sherlock well who is just an overgrown cat anyway.  
> Come and be friends on tumblr at yesilian.tumblr.com!


End file.
